


One Man's Nightmare is Another Man's Treasure

by SomniumOfLight



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Arc 1 is sort of a retelling of the game, Bendy is NOT a misunderstood cinnamon roll, Briar's her poor kind of mild-mannered roommate, It will probably be majorly AU, Might possibly become something more fluffy/slice of life later on, Miri is a snarky asshole and proud of it, Mystery, Probably some elements of psychological horror, Will probably have story arcs, a LOT later on, actually this entire fic will probably be majorly au, after all the game IS a horror game, but he's not evil either, he has good reason to act the way he does, if someone other than Henry ended up in that inky hellhole, maybe some body horror too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-17 11:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomniumOfLight/pseuds/SomniumOfLight
Summary: Once, a lonely little girl stumbled across a studio in the dark, and the creature that lived within.  Now,  twenty years later, she wakes up from a memory of childhood imaginings that lead her back to the abandoned place – only to find that her so-called “childhood imaginings” were far from imaginary.  And now that she knows that it was real, what else is there left to uncover in the dark?





	1. Dreamlike Memories

**Author's Note:**

> My interpretations of the BATIM characters – Bendy, Boris, Henry, Joey Drew, etc – are only just that: interpretations. They are NOT canon to the actual game or the history of the world it takes place in (or at least I don’t think they are). This is just me having fun! ^^
> 
> I might share little details that'll help flesh out the world this fanfiction takes place in (such as real historical facts that are also relevant to this fic, headcanons, etc), so keep an eye out for the End Notes to see if I've got anything to share with you!

In every city on the planet, there is a place whose lights have long since gone out, or where lights never glowed in the first place.

Sometimes this place is an empty lot, nothing save flat dirt and concrete. Sometimes it is an office building set for demolition. Sometimes it’s an abandoned warehouse, empty save for dust and old crates and the occasional homeless man making himself at home for the night.

In this particular city, in this particular place so easily shadowed by the gleaming lightbulbs and towering skyscrapers of downtown that lie in the distance, it is not a warehouse, nor an office, nor an empty lot. Here, a dilapidated structure sits, almost measly in comparison to the steel and glass grandeur of its distant neighbors. It’s hard to tell exactly what this place may have been – there’s nowhere near enough radiance here to see anything save a shape in the dark mist of this wet night – but it is small, with only a single story, and what little space it seems to cover is taken up by a shape that is less than uniform.

Then, there is a light. It’s a very small light, a dim beam breaking through the murk to alight upon one wall, miraculously clear of graffiti, and the corner of a window, clouded by dust and covered by thick wooden boards. When we follow the beam, we find it to originate from a flashlight, held in a small, trembling hand, and if we look closer, we find the owner of that hand to be a girl.

She is a young girl, and very thin and gangly, not even old enough to have grown into her own limbs yet. Round eyes of an indiscernible hue barely reflect light back at us, and the rest of her is equally ambiguous, the nighttime painting her figure in monochrome, but we can see a short bob of dark hair, mussed and tangled, loose clothing, and what seem to be slippers on her feet. She is not dressed for a foray into any of the ruins of the modern world, unless the mostly empty drawstring bag she is clutching to her chest hides a hammer, prybar, lockpick, or grappling hook.

But this girl does not seem to care, and as she approaches the building, we see her wipe something away from her eyes and hear a sniffle. She is crying, and mumbling a child’s equivalents of profanity in a meek little voice that pierces the darkness about as well as her flickering flashlight. The noises are soft, muffled and almost inaudible, just like her footsteps as she walks around the building’s perimeter, looking for something.

She finds what she was looking for in the form of a door. Unlike the other openings into the building that we can see, this door was clearly boarded up in a hurry, the wooden strips crooked and poorly fastened. The girl sets down her light to tug on one board, and it comes off in her hands after a few strong pulls. She removes each board, an occasional sniff the only interruptions, until the door is uncovered, and she pulls it open with a creak, releasing stale air into the world.

The inside of the building is darker than the outside, the bulbs hanging from the ceiling having been switched off long ago, but the flashlight picks out a short hall, adorned with posters, and a room beyond, and after a long moment, the girl walks inside.

The interior is not large enough for her footsteps to echo. Beyond the short stretch of entrance hall, the room we caught a glimpse from outside is fairly wide, but any flat surfaces that sound may bounce off of are severely hindered by the clutter of furniture. Tables stand along the wall, with tilted surfaces and sporting old abandoned drawings that match the figures from the posters, a projector sits abandoned, and film reels sit quiet on the wall. Above the girl’s head, strange black pipes shine with the dull gleam of dusty glass, drops of black liquid staining the wall beneath a crack in the curved surface.

The girl stands for a moment, eyes wide in surprise – or perhaps wonder – at the room before her, temporarily distracted from her earlier disquiet.

“This looks like a cartoonist’s studio,” she murmurs. When nothing save silence responds, she slowly picks her way across the room to the projector, and, after a moment, turns it on. There is still a film mounted, and it plays animated figures across the wall – one short and chubby with horns, one tall and even ganglier than her with a snout. The animation loops over and over, and after a long few moments of staring, her eyes gleaming with reluctant enthusiasm, the girl shakes her head and murmurs denial of something in her own mind before switching the projector back off again, along with the oddly distorted music it played.

She turns it off in time to hear sounds. Overhead the pipes are creaking, making strange noises, and the faint trickling sound of black gushing in a thin stream from the crack she’d noticed before.

“Hello?” She calls. No one calls back, but the creaking seems to retreat down the hall to the right of the door, and so she follows it, holding fast to her light as if it were a lifeline.

The sounds die. She follows the pipes, regardless, through a little winding hallway adorned by yet more tilting desks and cut-outs of one of the characters from the animation, until she turns a corner and finds the strangest room she’s ever seen.

The room itself is not unusual. It is small, and wooden, and has only a doorframe, no doors or hinges. Once it may have been a small storeroom. Now it plays host to the strangest machine the little girl has or likely ever will see, a great amalgamation of gears and metal and piping and a large glass tank labeled simply with “Ink.”

“This is a little weird,” she mutters, but despite the strangeness of this place she seems to be relaxing, whatever discomfort she once had dwindling away.

It returns when the sound of pattering, oddly wet footsteps reach her ears. She whips around, and sees nothing.

“Hello?” She calls again, her voice nervous. Her flashlight shakes in her hand.

Then something dark and shiny darts across her vision, and she shrieks and drops it. It lands on the floor and rolls away, she cannot see what is around her, and her fear is evident, even in the dark.

Something snickers. It is most definitely a snicker, and _not_ a creaking pipe.

“W-who’s there?!” The girl stutters, scrambling for her flashlight.

Just as her fingers close on the little device, something tugs at her bag, and with another shriek, she whips around. Again, there is nothing there, but she notices little black puddles on the floor, seeping into the cracks in the wood, despite there being no pipes above her to leak.

Again, movement, again she turns, and this time something slips under her foot and sends her toppling to the ground with a louder shriek, and again she hears the snickering.

“This isn’t funny!” she cries, and then, too late, feels her bag being tugged away by unseen hands. She lunges for it, but her fingers close on air, and the snickers suddenly seem to be coming from above her, not level with the floor.

“What are you talking about?” A new voice, warbling and strangely distorted, just like the audio from the animation she played earlier. “This is hilarious! I haven’t had this much fun in ages!”

It comes from above, but when she shines her light up to find it’s owner, they have disappeared, and black smears remain on the top of the machine.

“G-give it back!” She cries. “G-give my bag back!”

Another snicker. “Hmm, _nah._ ”

“P-please!” She is no longer scared, simply desperate to retrieve her belongings. “P-please give it back!”

“Why?” The voice asks. “What’s in it?”

“N-nothing!” she says immediately, but it’s not difficult to tell the voice is unconvinced, as it hums in dissatisfaction.

“Well then, I guess I’ll have to open it then, won’t I?”

“D-don’t! T-there’s nothing in there to look at, n-not really!”

If the sounds of rustling fabric, then paper, are any indication, the voice didn’t listen.

“D-don’t!”

The voice doesn’t answer again for a long few moments, save another hum, and then there’s the sound of ripping paper. The girl nearly shrieks.

“Geeze Louise, relax! I just tore out a page, that’s all.”

Something lands on the floor behind her with a heavy _sploosh_ , and the girl turns around to find the voice’s owner holding out her bag and it’s contents – a sketchbook. The cover is smeared slightly with black, but otherwise it seems unblemished.

She gapes at the creature before her for a moment, recognizing it’s black and white visage, then slowly reaches out to take back her belongings, only for them to be tugged back.

“Nuh-uh-uh!” One white, cartoony glove wags a finger at her mockingly. “I wanna know what’s so important about this sketchbook of yours first! Don’t get me wrong, your drawings are great, but are they really that important?”

The girl gapes like fish for a moment, mouth opening and closing.

“What?” A dripping head tilts to one side, a wide grin turning sharp – perhaps a tad _too_ sharp. “Never seen a cartoon before?”

No, the little girl has not, not one like this, but that is not why she gapes, if her next words are anything to go by.

“You t-think t-they’re… great?” Her voice cracks, and the vulnerability in her voice is painfully obvious. “You d-don’t think t-they’re a… a waste of time?”

“Pssh!” The white hand waves airily. “‘Course not! Who told you that baloney?”

She does not answer, and the creature’s smile twists in a way that can only be called painful.

“Soooo, you gonna tell me what that’s all about, or do I have to keep this?”

* * *

 

It’s not certain how long they have been talking, the girl and the strange creature that drips black onto the floor. It has been a long time, that much is certain, for the girl’s eyes have dried and, though she still stutters, she seems strangely at ease at her unusual companion’s presence. The girl is smiling, though shyly, and sometimes laughs at something the creature says or does. The creature itself seems cheerful but if one looks closely, one can see a fine vibration of tension in the way it moves, the way it smiles.

When, finally, the girl gets up to leave, clutching her newly acquired belongings tight against her chest, the creature’s smile becomes even more strained.

“Hey, where are you going? Don’t just walk away from someone, that’s just rude!”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she seems genuinely sorry, eyes scrunched up with remorse. “But I have to go back h-home.”

The creature scrambles after her as she begins to walk, a note of desperation entering its voice. “B-but you can’t just leave! I still haven’t told you about that epic prank war I started once!”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “But my p-parents will be worried about me.”

“They don’t sound like they’d miss you at all!”

“They would,” she insists quietly. “And m-my little brother, too.

A moment of silence, then the creature backs away, smile warping into something that seems a mix of desperation and possibly fear.

“Please?” It tries, and the girl stops, because this creature had yet to use the word _please_ the entire time they had been speaking, and she turned back to see that expression sprawling across its face. It’s holding the drawing it tore from her sketchbook in one hand, and, seeing her eyes get drawn to it, it offers the paper with shaking fingers.

“I-I’ll give you this back if you stay!”

She stares some more, then smiles a little sadly.

“Keep it.” She says. “T-that way I have to come back to get it.” She holds out one hand, pinky finger extended. “I’ll come back. I p-promise.”

The creature says nothing for a long time, black eyes wide and pleading, but when the girl’s sad expression doesn’t change, it looks away, it’s own face bearing a dawning look of intense disappointment and betrayal.

“Liar,” it mutters. “You won’t.”

* * *

 

With a swirl of color, the dream that was also a memory popped like a bubble.

* * *

 

In a low-slung bed in a tiny bedroom in a small apartment, a woman with dark eyes and hair that was once dark but now sports a myriad of colors bolts awake. She lays there for a moment, looking up at the ceiling of her room, limbs flung out in a sprawling tangle across her mattress and hair falling into her blinking eyes, until the details of the strange dream of childhood imaginings makes her eyes widen, and she leaps from bed and dashes across the narrow hall to her roommate’s door.

She bangs on it, hard, once, twice, and calls through the wood to the possibly listening ears beyond, until the door creaks open a fraction, and bleary eyes blink at her.

“What?” The man says.

She grins, a look of practiced mischief twenty years in the making.

“I’ve found a place for our workshop,” she says.


	2. Enter Miri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My interpretations of the BATIM characters – Bendy, Boris, Henry, Joey Drew, etc – are only just that: interpretations. They are NOT canon to the actual game or the history of the world it takes place in (or at least I don’t think they are). This is just me having fun! ^^

If one were to ask anybody who had made the acquaintance of one Miriam “Miri” Besnick just what sort of woman she was, the answer you would receive would differ depending on just who you asked.

If you were to ask her parents, they would tell you she was a rapscallion, a fool working towards a career bound to crash and burn, and bemoan how her teenage rebellion phase had started early, and then never ended.

If you were to ask her younger brother, he would either turn his nose up at the mention of her (whenever their parents were around), or declare with a huge grin that she was the coolest person on the face of the planet, even if she was a girl, and he wanted to be just like her when he grew up (when they weren’t).

If you were to ask the professors at the art college she had attended, they would tell you she was a bit too quick to curse, but hardworking, being one of the most dedicated students on campus.

If you were to ask her close-knit group of friends, they would tell you she was 50% asshole, but otherwise strangely likable.

And if you were to ask Miri herself, she would give you an impish grin, and tell you flat-out that she was at least 75% an ass, a rebel, and, on top of everything else (and this she would tell you smugly, complete with her chest puffed up in pride) an animator.

Miri had grown up in a reasonably successful household in an average little suburb of an average American city. Her parents – her father a somewhat well-known and respected doctor, and her mother a tailor whose skills with a needle and thread were always in demand – upon realizing they actually _had_ a child, had proceeded to try to groom her into the little successful businesswoman that they always wanted in their family, cramming her life full of books and lessons on what they considered to be respectable professions, and urging her to pick one to work towards.

Unfortunately (or at least so they thought), by the tender age of ten, their daughter showed no interest in any of those fields, instead immersing herself in art – character sketches, landscapes, fairies and unicorns, and most of all, cartoons. They argued many times over the girl’s interests, Miri herself retreating further and further into her pencils and papers whenever she could, until one night she ran out into the dark crying and came back early the next morning… different.

It was a very subtle difference, at first. She listened to her mother and father’s lectures, read the textbooks they offered, and kept her sketchbooks hidden and her clothes unmarred by paint or ink.

Then she shattered her parents’ hopes that she’d finally given up that wishy-washy hobby of hers, and announced one night at their dinner table, in a trembling but determined voice, that she was going to be a cartoonist when she grew up, with her own studio, and there was nothing they could do to change her mind.

Needless to say, the parental units disapproved, but by the time she reached her last year of high school, Miri had made it very clear that she was done letting their disapproval dictate how she lived her life. She walked out on lectures, locked herself in her room and moved furniture in front of the door, and left cartoonish drawings all over the house. As she got older and amassed her group of oddball pals, her rebellions grew more extreme – she skipped classes, used her allowance to pay for art lessons, bought new art supplies, encouraged her little brother to research the influence cartoons had during the World Wars, and even participated in the marring of public locales with graffiti – very elaborate graffiti. When her parents tried to remodel her bedroom to their standards, she repainted the walls herself, creating a menagerie of fantastical-looking landscapes and multitudes of cartoon characters. She made little comics for her parents for every birthday and Christmas – all with at least a touch of mockery to them, and sometimes not even _subtle_ mockery.

This conflict eventually culminated in a loud shouting match, a bucket of paint being dumped on Mrs. Besnick’s head, and Miri getting kicked out of the house and forbidden from coming back until she “saw just how foolish she was being and started working towards a _real_ career.”

She then proceeded to move in with one of her friends, saved up enough money to get into a reasonably good art school, graduated with a masters degree and pretty much straight-A’s in every class, and had begun cranking out as many handmade cartoons as she could whenever she wasn’t at work.

Needless to say, she hadn’t gone back, though sometimes her roommate, one Briar Kern, wished she had.

Take now, for instance.

* * *

 

For the second time in as many days, Briar was woken up by someone banging on his bedroom door.

“Hey!” Miri shouted. “Briar, wake up, get dressed, get your coffee, let’s go!”

“Go?” He repeated blearily. “It’s too early to _go_. Lemme sleep.”

On the other side of the door, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a pair of glasses shoved hastily onto her nose, Miri rolled her eyes and kept knocking furiously until her unfortunate roommate finally flung it open and gave her his best early morning glare.

It wasn’t very intimidating, mostly because he couldn’t seem to focus on her face long enough to look her in the eyes.

“There we go!” Miri shoved the cup into his hand. “Now drink, get that zombie brain reanimated and up and moving!”

The next half hour proceeded in a similar fashion, Miri shouting into his ear every now and then, promising threats of broken coffee brewers and a pillow stuffed with every minor allergen he had (including feathers), until finally, he was stumbling about and mostly dressed, and she dragged him eagerly out their door and out into the early morning sunshine.

By the time they were on their bus to their unknown destination, the man was awake and none too happy.

“So why exactly did you drag me out of bed at _ungodly o’clock in the morning?”_ He demanded.

Miri grinned, relaxed in a short paint-splattered dress, leggings, and clunky boots, apparently not at all bothered by his displeasure.  In fact, she seemed amused by it.

“What, you mean you’re _not_ an early bird? Why, I’ve been wrong about you for all these years, Briar dear!” Her voice positively  _ooz_ _ed_ with sarcasm.

“Cut the crap,” Briar groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Where are we _going?”_

“Remember what I told you yesterday about remembering a place for that studio we’ve been wanting?”

He blinked at her. “… Vaguely?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, it was your zombie hour, so you didn’t hear it, _whatever.”_ She flapped her hand dismissively at him. “The point is, I told you about it.” She leaned forward, clapping her hands together and practically _beaming_ at him, an expression that looked _extremely_ out of place on her. “Well, last night I managed to get in contact with the owner of the place, and he practically _begged_ me to take it off his hands! He actually offered to pay _me_ if I agreed to take ownership!”

Briar gave her a sour look.

“Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t take him up on it! He lowered the price to around $6,000, so I bought the place! It’s ours now!”

He blinked at her a couple more times, until this statement actually seemed to worm its way in and register somewhere in his sleep-deprived brain, and then his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

“It’s ours? Really? Just like that?”

“Yeah! Isn’t it _great?_ ”

It _was_ great. Both of them had been steadily working towards founding their own animation company for many years now (since no existing studio was willing to more than glance at any of their pitches), and a studio to call their own was a big step in the right direction. Briar’s moodiness vanished, replaced by an expression of radiant enthusiasm, before another, more pragmatic thought occurred to him and he frowned.

“Why buy the place now? We’ve got nowhere near enough funds to start anything, and the building’s probably got a lot of repairs that need doing… and if this guy wanted to get rid of it so badly, then there’s _gotta_ be some sort of catch. A big one.”

Miri rolled her eyes, and reached for the drawstring pouch slung over her shoulder. Briar immediately leaned back warily.

Now, it might seem laughable to be _wary_ of a little drawstring pouch, but every member of Miri’s troupe of pals would vouch for having a healthy and slightly fearful respect for that little ink-splattered bag. Miri claimed she’d had it since she was ten, always carried it with her, no matter where she went, and it always seemed to carry whatever she happened to need at the time. “Whatever she happened to need” included everything from lipstick tubes to sketchbooks, cooking utensils to pocket knives, and, on one memorable occasion, she’d pulled a three-inch thick hardbound book out of the thing, that, by all rights, should _not_ have fit in there.

There was _no way_ that little bag could carry so much, they all agreed, without it having something sinisterly supernatural involved.

They had so much faith that there was something supernatural involved that they actually started a betting pool years ago over whether or not Miri would pull a chainsaw out of the damn thing.

Luckily for Briar’s nerves(and his wallet), Miri only pulled a folder of papers out of it today, and began rifling through them.

“I looked this place up before I bought it,” she informed him, putting on one of her more serious faces. “There wasn’t a whole lot of information out there, but there was enough. The building’s in pretty damn good shape, all things considered – the last two owners’ only complaints were some leaky pipes and some gaps in the walls and floors. Shouldn’t cost us too much to repair it, and if worst comes to worst, we can just move in if we can’t handle the taxes of both our apartment and this place at once.”

“Wait, wait,” Briar said, waving his hands to catch her attention, and his eyes wide. “Go back a bit – the last _two owners?”_

Miri snorted. “Yeah. The guy who originally had the place built decided to bugger off about 25 years ago and sold it to the highest bidder. The guy who bought it eventually sold it to someone else – don’t know why, it doesn’t say in the papers – and _that_ guy was a huge wimp, thought the place was haunted. Kept talking about moving cardboard cutouts and weird noises and stuff.” She shrugged. “Eventually he sold the place to the guy I bought it from, and it’s just been collecting dust ever since.”

“Great...” Briar groaned, putting his head back in his hands. He looked downright miserable. “Haunted. Just great.”

She snorted. “I doubt it’s actually haunted. I mean, I went and talked to Jenn, and _she_ said it was probably safe enough.

“That’s _not_ very reassuring.”

“Oh, man up, you sissy.” Miri leaned across the aisle and slapped his knee playfully. “Having a haunted studio would be _awesome_.”

“Says you. _I_ actually have _some_ sense of self-preservation left.”

“Oh come on, we both know you’d totally be drooling over the chance to get a photograph of a real-life ghost. Besides,” she added, smirking, “No ghost could ever stand up to the standards of the monstrosities _you_ come up with on a daily basis, Mr. Hey-Let’s-Make-A-Cartoon-About-a-Psychopathic –”

“I thought we agreed never to talk about that again,” he interrupted her hurriedly.

“Pssh. _You_ agreed never to talk about it again, _I_ never agreed to _anything.”_

_“_ _Miri!”_

* * *

 

The property that now belonged to the two aspiring animators wasn’t all that impressive. It sat in the middle of a quiet suburban neighborhood, a semi-abandoned looking lot that might have once been a parking lot, but was now nothing more than a garden of weeds surrounding a small building. The building itself wasn’t exactly impressive either – it was two stories story tall, and, unlike in that odd dream-memory that Miri only partially remembered, it was _covered_ in graffiti. Admittedly, most of the graffiti was actually a pretty cool-looking sort of graffiti, and there was a very low ratio of cuss words to pictures, unlike most walls that people emptied their spray cans on, but that was pretty much the only impressive thing about it, save the sheer quantity of wooden boards nailed over every visible window and door.

“Wow,” Briar deadpanned, now considerably more awake than he’d been on the bus. “This looks _exactly_ like an artist’s studio should be.”

“Oh, shut it.” Miri shoved him, smirking at the scowl he shot in her direction, and then opened her folder of files and deftly removed what seemed like folded-up blueprints from between a few other pages. “Sure, it’s a fixer-upper, but it could be worse, and it’s the inside we’re more worried about right now, right?” She unfolded the blueprints, scanning the drawings quickly.

“Okay, we’ve got some supply closets, some offices… and if I’m remembering correctly, there’s still a bunch of equipment left inside. Some radios, some old drawing tables, projectors…”

She grabbed her roommate’s hand, and, nose still buried in the closest things to maps she’d been able to find, dragged her increasingly put-out friend after her. “Looks like the top floor’s got some sort of black room – the walls there are made of sturdier stuff, and it's got no windows at all. Some more offices…”

They turned a corner, and there stood an unblocked door. _The_ door.

Miri snickered. “Aww man, nobody even boarded up the door after me? That’s pretty irresponsible of them.”

“Uh, Miri?”

“Yeeeesss?”

“You, uh… have a key, right? There’s a lock on the door.”

Still grinning, she strode forward, and easily pulled open the door, revealing a dark, dusty interior without a single lit light bulb in sight. It also let out a veritable blast of air with the distinct, pungent scent of rubber ink.

“Don’t need one,” she said cheerfully. “I don’t think this door was locked back then, either…”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a huge, bulky flashlight, taking a distinct satisfaction in how Briar’s face scrunched up in his familiar “that shouldn’t be possible” expression that usually followed her taking something huge out of the bag, and flicked it on, revealing scores of dust drifting in the air in the wake of the first breeze this place had felt in years, and a short hall lined with vaguely familiar posters. A small room was visible beyond it, though just barely – the dust in the air was so thick, and the room so dark, that it was difficult to see through, but she could make out what was probably a chair, and maybe a corner of that old projector from her dream.

Miri took in a deep breath, unbothered by the inky stench, and stepped into what had once served as a childhood sanctuary with a spring in her step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally planning to make this story take place in a more modern setting. The temptation to make Miri a snarky paid-by commission YouTuber was almost too strong, plus there were interesting scenarios involving Bendy and photo-bombing/skype-call-bombing that could have been entertaining. 
> 
> In the end I kept Miri’s personality, but made the time period closer to sometime in the 70s, with less technology and more of an old(ish)-timey feel. It’s not going to be accurate to that time period, mind – I haven’t done any real research – but rather something like a fusion between that decade and modern day, with some more modern slang and sensibilities alongside some more old-fashioned characteristics. That being said, I probably should do some actual research…


End file.
